


Viventerrus

by The_Arkadian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anders whumping, Angst, Blood and Gore, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on the LJ dragonage_kinkmeme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/10749.html?thread=41944061</p>
<p>"Fenris and Anders are in an established relationship and it can be a semi-loving relationship or they can show their love through their antagonism toward each other. Anyway they have very rough sex almost to the point of sadomasochistic with Fenris always the dominate partner.</p>
<p>Anyway one night something happens, they get in an argument or maybe just after Fenris kill Danarius, whatever it is it causes Fenris to lose control and hurt Anders. He rapes hims, break bones, bruises organs just rips him apart. The entire time he was attacking him he screams that mages are evil and dangerous. Basically everything he is always saying to Hawke he screams at Anders all night long. How graphic the attack is is up to A!A.</p>
<p>When Fenris wakes up the next morning he finds a bloody, broken and mostly unresponsive Anders. They only response he gets from the mage is him saying he is a good mage and will serve like a mage should or something along those lines."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris groaned as he opened his eyes, blinking. The sunlight was far too bright; harsh and sharp, like steel across his mind.

His head throbbed, and he ached all over. He groaned again as he rolled over onto his back and turned his face away from the bright patch of sunlight that bathed his pillow in fierce gold. He blinked slowly.

And stared at the large bloodstain spread across the other half of the bed where the blond apostate should have been.

It was still damp.

The elf sat bolt-upright. His memories of the previous evening were only hazy at best, but he could not shake the feeling that something was desperately, desperately wrong. Throwing aside his covers, he stared at the patches of blood that covered the side of the bed where Anders customarily slept on those occasions he had accompanied the elf back to his decrepit mansion.

Fenris scrambled back off the bed, his eyes taking in the rest of the room, the last vestiges of sleep fled utterly and all his senses wide awake. A length of leather thong, still slick with blood, hung tied about one bedpost, a smeared bloody handprint still gleaming wetly just above it. As Fenris circled the bed slowly, he noted the overturned chair, the table shoved to one side – were those scratches in its surface?

A brief image – _blond hair, hands outstretched, nails scrabbling desperately against the wooden surface, pale flesh bruising beneath his gauntlets, a whimpered plea –_ Fenris reeled. No. No.

Anders. Where was Anders?

Bloodstains on the floor. Bloody footprints, a smear where something ( _someone_ ) was dragged across the floor. Broken glass. He followed, his footsteps halting, dreading what he might find.

The hall... down the stairs. Another bloody handprint, this time on the carpet – where someone, falling, might have thrown out their hands to catch themselves as they fell. A splintered bannister rail; a few threads of golden hair still clung to the broken wood.

_No. No. No._

Memories slowly returning as he stumbled across the hall, towards the door that led down into the cellar. Red hair. Her scream. _“My little wolf.”_

Blood. Blood. So much blood. On his hands, in his mouth, on the porcelain white skin, in the dark blond hair.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs.

Something moved, stirring, in the darkness. A faint clink of metal on stone. A quiet whimper.

With a thought, the silvery lines of lyrium across his body surged into life, lighting up the wine cellar in a blaze of ethereal blue light.

The blond apostate in the corner did not stir or react, even as Fenris hurried to his side and dropped to his knees beside him. As Fenris cradled the bloodied, broken thing that was Anders gently to his chest, the mage murmured quietly to himself, a barely audible litany, his amber eyes staring blankly at nothing.

“Anders, beloved, what -”

Anders lay unresisting in his arms, staring blindly at nothing, eyes glazed over as he continued to murmur in a faint monotone. Fenris leaned closer and then froze, aghast, as he finally heard.

“No... Fenris... no... please... I'll be good... no... Fenris... no... please... I'll be good... no....”

A chill struck straight to Fenris' heart as Anders continued to whisper his monotone litany. _What had he done??_ He gathered the unresisting mage in his arms and tried to rise to his feet, but something was holding the mage down. That metallic clinking sound again... Fenris looked down, and drew his breath in with a startled hiss. The mage was manacled, chained to the wall.

He set the mage down, running his hands along the chains from Anders' wrists to the heavy iron rings in the wall. The chains had obviously been there a long time, doubtless from the days when slavers used the mansion as their hangout. He ran his hands back along the cold iron links to the crude manacles encircling Anders' wrists which were lacerated from the rough edges. Anders huddled, unresisting as Fenris took one wrist and then the other, feeling over the surface of the manacles. Glancing down, the elf noted that the mage's ankles were also chained.

He phased his hand through the manacles, breaking the locks. Anders did not react, even when freed. He merely hunched over, naked, dirty and broken, still murmuring his now-meaningless litany, seemingly unaware he spoke at all.

Gathering Anders into his arms once more, Fenris rose to his feet, bearing the apostate swiftly back upstairs to his room.

He stared around at the wreckage for a moment, then carefully set Anders upon his feet. The mage collapsed at his feet; lying still for a minute or two, stunned into silence by the fall, he slowly drew his arms and legs into a fetal ball, wrapping his slender arms around his long legs and tucking his bloodied head down against his knees before quietly returning to his quiet unthinking chant.

Up here in the daylight, Fenris could see better the bruises, lacerations and marks that covered every inch of Anders' body. Fenris grabbed a fur from his bed and covered the naked mage, then hastily stripped the bloodstained linen from the bed. He remade the bed as swiftly as he could, darting worried glances at the unmoving mage as he worked.

What had happened last night? What had happened to his mage? Whatever it was, it had obviously happened at his hands, but _how_? He was racked with remorse and guilt, even as he desperately tried to remember what had happened the previous evening.

He gently gathered up the apostate in his arms and bore him to the bed, laying him down carefully. He stroked the bloodied hair back from the pale face as he sat upon the edge of the mattress, then took a limp, unresisting hand between his own.

“Anders,” he called softly. “Anders. Come back to me.”

The quiet litany faltered then and Anders fell silent, still staring sightlessly into space. Fenris opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue, not trusting his voice past the sudden lump in his throat. He stared into the slack face for long minutes whilst the silence spread between them like thick treacle. He pulled his gaze away from the blank eyes.

A bath. Anders needed a bath. Once the mage was clean he would be able to determine what his injuries were.

Not for the first time, Fenris was glad the unknown slaver who had originally owned the mansion had been a rich man; the dwarven plumbing in the bathing chamber made washing the unresponsive apostate so much easier. Anders was – well, not exactly compliant; he did not resist however as Fenris led him down the steps into the sunken tub, kneeling in the hot water. He began murmuring again, but this time as Fenris leaned closer to begin carefully soaping him down, he heard the threnody change slightly.

“... I'll be a good mage, I promise, I'll do as I'm told.... I'll be a good mage....”

“Anders!” cried Fenris softly as he dropped the washcloth and knelt in front of the blond apostate, taking him gently by the hands. “What did I do? What have I done?”

Anders slowly blinked, the glazed eyes focussing inward.

“What... what I... deserved,” breathed the broken man softly. “But I'll be good now, I promise. I'm not like those other mages. I'll be good, just like you said. Just like you said, Master.”

Fenris recoiled as if slapped. “What did you just call me?” he whispered, horrified.

“Master.” Anders knelt in the water, head lowered.

“Anders. Look at me.”

The blond head lifted slowly, and the amber eyes regarded him dully. Fenris hesitantly reached out and cupped a bruised and lacerated cheek in his hand; Anders didn't react.

Memories. _A gauntleted hand lashing out, catching Anders across the cheek, the sharp metal cutting into flesh; Anders reeling, his face white with shock. “Fenris, what-”_

“ _Shut up! SHUT UP!” screamed the elf as he followed up the slap with a punch to the solar plexus. Anders dropped to his knees, breathless and retching as the elf stood over him.”This is all your fault – you and your kind! What has magic ever touched that it did not ruin, despoil?”_

“ _Fenris... love....” moaned Anders, breaking off with a cry as Fenris slammed his foot into the unarmed mage's chest, slamming him backwards to the floor before following it up with a kick to the groin. Anders screamed and curled into a ball, rolling over onto his side as he vomited._

_Fenris didn't give him a chance to draw breath; snarling a gauntleted fist in the dishevelled blond hair, he bodily dragged Anders back up to his knees. “Don't talk to me of love,” he snarled. “What can your kind ever know of it?” Throwing aside the gauntlet on his other hand, he freed himself from his pants, stroking his hard, erect member as he dragged Anders closer by the hair. “There's only one thing you mages understand, and that's power, domination!” He pressed the head of his cock against Anders' split and bleeding lips; the mage's eyes widened._

“ _Fenris, please-”_

_He forced his cock into the unwilling mage's mouth and then, grasping the blond head with both hands, not caring that the razor-clawed gauntlets pierced fragile skin, he began to fuck Anders' mouth, driving his cock as far down the struggling apostate's throat as he could reach. Anders was gagging around his thick member, the sounds delicious to the inflamed elf's hearing. How often had Danarius done this to him? How often had Fenris' body been a plaything for the magister and his friends? Anders was choking, unable to draw breath; Fenris' hips only snapped faster, thrusting deep down that hot, wet, inviting throat until with a shuddering groan, he came, his semen spurting thickly down Anders' throat, filling his mouth, choking him._

_He thrust the human away as he finished, watching in satisfaction as the blond apostate sprawled upon the soiled carpet, milky white fluid trickling down his chin and mingling with the blood. Anders was gasping for breath, coughing and choking._

“ _On your feet.”_

_Anders rolled onto his side, retching still, but he shook his head. No. Furious, Fenris bent over him and grasped the startled mage by the throat. He dragged the struggling man up by force then marched him backwards until Anders' back slammed into the edge of the table even as the mage's hands scrabbled ineffectually at the gauntlet choking off his breath, his eyes wide and panicked._

“ _My sister is dead,” snarled Fenris, finally releasing the apostate's throat only to start ripping at Anders' thin linen shirt._

“ _Not by my hands! Fenris, please, what happened – you can't possibly think it was my fault!” pleaded the mage. The elf snarled and backhanded him across the mouth. As Anders reeled, stunned, Fenris took him and turned him, bodily forcing him to bend over the table edge, his hands splayed out on the worn wooden surface before him. Anders whimpered as the elf tugged his pants roughly down over his hips to pool about his knees then forced a knee between his thighs, thrusting his legs apart. “Fenris, please, whatever I did – please, we can work this out. Don't do this, I beg you!”_

“ _Thought you liked it rough, love?” replied Fenris scornfully._

_Anders lowered his head even as he spread his legs. “Not like this,” he whispered._

“ _Mages can't be trusted. This is all you truly know or understand – use and be used. Your turn to feel what that's like for once, mage,” growled Fenris._

“ _I already know,” whispered Anders as he felt rough fingers probing him. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he submitted to Fenris' fingers. “Do what you have to then. Get this over with,” he managed, biting back a sob as Fenris began to force a third then a fourth finger into his entrance, shoving roughly. Fenris' hand was dry, skin rubbing painfully inside._

“ _Please, at least let me-” He held out a hand, calling up a quick grease spell._

“ _NO!” roared Fenris as he brought his gauntleted fist crashing down on the back of the defenseless apostate's head. Anders slumped onto the table, barely conscious, eyes glazed. “You will not use magic save by my direct orders from now on, do you understand, mage?” There was no answer. Fenris turned the mage over and dragged him upright by the hair. “I will teach you what happens to disobedient mages, wretch!”_

“ _Please....” slurred Anders, trying with difficulty to focus his eyes on the furious elf who was dragging him over towards the bed. Fenris was lit up from head to foot, every lyrium line blazing, making it hard to focus on anything clearly as the proximity of so much lyrium overwhelmed what was left of Anders' senses. He did not resist as the elf tied his wrists tightly to the bedposts until Anders was spreadeagled upright between two of the pillars, bound at wrist and ankle, naked._

_The first blow of the leather belt across his back made him jerk and cry out. It was followed by another, then another, the lashes coming so thick and fast he could barely draw breath between screams. Even the templars had never beaten him like this. Through the ringing in his ears he could hear the sickening sound of leather slapping wetly against bleeding flesh; his back was awash in white fire. His body jerked and twisted with every blow, and above the sounds of whipping and screams Anders could hear Fenris still ranting about the evils of mages, how he could never trust a mage, what a fool he'd been to ever allow a mage to come close to him, and how he would teach Anders to be a good mage._

_He begged and pleaded between blows. Wept, screamed, sobbed, as the blood ran down his legs. As the punishment went on, he sagged between the posts, giving in to the punishment, retreating inside himself the way he used to back in the Circle. After a while, he fell silent, which only seemed to infuriate the elf more._

_That was when the elf threw aside the bloody strip of leather and began to force his gauntleted fist into Anders' abused and bloodied anus-_

Fenris stared at Anders, his eyes wide in horror. He had done this. He had broken the mage.

He flung his arms around the unresponsive man and hugged him tightly, sobbing wretchedly.

“I'll be good, I promise,” whispered Anders. “You'll never need to beat me again, Master, I swear it. I'll be so good to you... your good little mage, just like you want me, however you want me....”

“Ssh,” whispered Fenris brokenly, and Anders obediently fell quiet. Fenris pushed himself upright and stared through the tears at his mage.

_His mage. His beautiful, broken mage. Broken by him._

“Forgive me,” he breathed.

“M-Master?”

Fenris winced. “I am no man's master,” he denied.

“You... don't want me any more?” The dull amber eyes filled with tears.

“No!” cried out Fenris. “I mean, yes, I do want you – I-I just, I....” He stared hopelessly at the mage. He had broken Anders, as surely as Danarius had broken him. As he lifted a hand to Anders' cheek once more, the mage leaned his face into the touch, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“You are completely mine, aren't you? If I ordered you to drown yourself, you would,” murmured Fenris.

“Yes, Master,” acquiesced Anders, and ducked his head beneath the water, the blond hair fanning out beneath the surface.

“No!” cried Fenris, grasping Anders by the shoulders and wrenching his head up above the water; the mage gasped, chest heaving. “No, Anders, that wasn't an order!”

“M-Master?”

“What am I going to do with you?” whispered Fenris.

“Whatever you wish,” replied Anders breathlessly. “I am yours.”

Once, those words would have kindled a fire in the elf's groin; now, they sent a shiver through him, a chill soul-deep. He had said those words to Danarius.

Fenris pulled himself up out of the water and sat heavily on the edge of the tub, gesturing to the mage to kneel in front of him. Gently, Fenris began to wash the blood and dirt from the mage, carefully washing the loose blond hair until the water sluiced through the silken strands ran clear and clean. He delicately sponged the raw flesh across Anders' back where the leather belt had raised bloody welts, the skin criss-crossed by lacerations. He bathed the bruised wrists and ankles.

At a gesture, Anders raised himself up and leaned over the edge of the tub, and Fenris moved behind him to gently clean his thighs and buttocks. He drew in a horrified breath as he saw the mess his gauntlets had made of Anders; blood was still seeping sluggishly from the apostate's ragged and torn entrance. The mage must have grievous injuries inside that would need treating urgently.

As Fenris hesitantly touched Anders' bare hip, the mage whimpered, and Fenris snatched his hand away as though burned. “Please,” begged Anders. Fenris backed away, shaking his head.

He remembered this all too well from his own time as a slave.

“ _Please, Master.” The pain inside him was agony, but the elf knew only the burning desire to please his Master. He bent over, presenting himself, longing for the touch of his master inside even as he dreaded it._

“ _Say it, my pet. Say the words.”_

“ _Please, I-I beg you, Master, I-I need....”_

“ _Say it.”_

_He closed his eyes as a tear squeezed out unbidden. “I want to feel your cock inside me, Master.”_

_The pain as Danarius took him roughly from behind was almost exquisite. The tears that rolled down his face as the blood ran down his legs were tears of gratitude, he told himself._

“ _Thank you, Master! Oh thank you!” he chanted as the magister thrust inside him, ripping his body further with every grind of his hips...._

“Please, Master,” begged Anders, even as he shivered. Fenris shook his head, dragging a hand roughly over his face to dispel unwanted memories.

“Let's get you back to bed,” he muttered, as he pulled Anders back to his feet. Wrapping the mage in a towel, he lifted him in his arms once more. Anders began to cry softly.

Back in the bedroom, Fenris sat the mage upon the edge of the bed, still wrapped in the towel. He moved to his pack and hunted through it for a couple of healing potions, salve and a healing kit, then hunted through his belt pouches until he found a small vial. Then he brought everything back to the bed.

Anders was compliant and obedient as Fenris dressed his wounds, slathering elfroot salve upon his back before binding dressings in place with soft white bandages. He gently pushed Anders onto his stomach, face pushed into a pillow with his arse in the air. Anders assumed the position with an eagerness that made Fenris shudder; the mage cried out softly when instead of taking him, Fenris merely gently poured the contents of one of the healing potions carefully over and into the mage's torn body. Then he made Anders lie down on his back, nestled into the pillows, and drew the covers up to the mage's chest before handing him the second healing potion, ordering him to drink it down. Anders did so without question, obediently swallowing the foul-tasting potion until the bottle was empty. Then Fenris unstoppered the vial and handed it to him, and Anders unquestioningly drank that, too. As the last dregs drained into his mouth, Anders' eyes fluttered shut and the glass vial slipped from slack fingers as his hand went limp.

Fenris stared at the drugged and sleeping mage.

What was he going to do with him? And how the hell was he going to explain this to Hawke and the others?


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris hammered on the door. “Hurry, Hawke,” he breathed as he waited, darting anxious glances around the square. It was mid-afternoon, and the armoured elf knocking on the door of the Hightown house was drawing glances from passersby.

The door opened and Bodahn raised an eyebrow slightly. “Messere Fenris! This is most unexpected; I fear Master Hawke is, er, not expecting....”

Fenris pushed past him abruptly. “Hawke? Hawke! I need your help!”

As Bodahn waddled after him, still protesting, Fenris strode into the main hall. “Hawke!” 

“I'm here, Fenris,” called the rogue from above. Fenris looked up and a thankful look crossed his face as Hawke made his way down the stairs, fiddling with a buckle on his vambrace. Fenris took in the armour the rogue wore and frowned slightly. “This is... not a good time?”

“Not particularly, no,” replied Hawke. “The Viscount sent me another note this morning; the Arishok has been somewhat tetchy of late which has all the nobles nervous. What is it? Can it wait till later?”

“It's Anders,” said Fenris bleakly. “I... you have to come, Hawke. I've... done something. I need you to help me fix it. Him. Please.”

Hawke paused, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, 'fix him'? What have you done to him?”

“Please, Hawke. I daren't leave him alone for long. He's... he is sleeping, but....”

Hawke stared at Fenris for a moment, then nodded once. “Bodahn! Send a message to Varric. I need a healer – a good one, mind. Have him bring them here, and have Orana prepare the spare room.”

“What about the message from the Viscount, Messere?” asked Bodahn.

“Inform the Viscount that I am temporarily absent on a personal matter but I shall speak with the Arishok shortly.”

“Very good, Messere,” replied Bodahn as Hawke strode towards the door.

“Let's see what you've done to our mage, Fenris.” The glance he gave the elf as the emerged into the sunshine was not friendly.

 

 

 

Fenris pushed himself up to his knees, wiping the blood from his split lip on the back of his hand. “You are right to be angry with me,” he said slowly.

“Angry! Angry?” echoed Hawke as he rounded on the elf. “I went past 'angry' a good five minutes ago, Fenris! I just went straight past 'pissed off' and I'm well into 'bloody furious'!” He fisted the front of Fenris' tunic and straight-armed the elf off his feet. “What the hell were you thinking? Anders, of all people? You _know_ what he's been through – you, of all people, should know!”

He threw the elf aside and turned back to the bed where the healer was putting away sachets of herbs, ointments and spare bandages, and glanced at the unconscious mage. “You damned near killed him, Fenris! The man you claim to love. What the hell did he do to deserve that? He didn't _ask_ to be born a mage, any more than you chose to be born an elf!”

“I know,” whispered Fenris as he crept around the far side of the bed to look down at Anders. He reached out to stroke back an errant lock of hair, but his fingers hovered scant inches above the still features before dropping uselessly to Fenris' side. “I... lost my mind. I lashed out.”

“You did more than lash out, Fenris. You broke him,” answered Hawke. The healer stepped away from the bed and Hawke lowered himself to sit next to Anders. “How is he?” he asked the healer, his voice quieter.

“He is gravely hurt, Messere,” replied the healer, lifting his eyes from his satchel where his deft fingers were stowing salves and potions. “I have healed what I could. Four ribs were broken, the left wrist, two fingers on the left hand. Internal injuries; his bowels were torn, spleen ruptured, kidneys badly bruised. Extensive internal bleeding. His skull was fractured. Extensive bruising and lacerations. He had been whipped from shoulders to thighs.” He looked up at Hawke apologetically. “I fear there will be scarring; I am not as skilled in the healing arts as he is.”

Hawke breathed in deeply through his nose, not trusting himself to look at Fenris. “And his mind?”

The healer shook his head. “As to that... I cannot say, Messere.”

“You've done well, Joran,” said Varric. “You'll be well rewarded for your work.”

Joran nodded. “I'll see to it that his clinic is taken care of. Anders got my sister out of the Gallows; I owe him a great debt.”

Hawke nodded, turning away as Varric saw the healer out.

“ _Vehendis,”_ breathed Fenris. “I never....”

“Save it for someone who wants to hear it, Fenris,” growled Hawke. “In fact, get out.”

Fenris' eyes widened. “Hawke, please, no – let me stay, I-”

“Haven't you done enough harm? What makes you think Anders will want you anywhere near him when he wakes, after what you did to him?”

Neither man noticed the mage's eyes fluttering open slowly, his breath growing more shallow as he struggled into consciousness, too intent upon each other as they argued, Hawke backing the elf away from the bed.

Anders opened his eyes and stared around the room, bewildered, until his eyes fell upon Fenris and Hawke. “Get OUT!” roared the rogue, laying his hand upon the knife at his hip.

“No!” screamed Anders, staggering from the bed. “Master, don't leave me!” He stumbled as he reached towards the elf. “Leave my master alone!” he cried as he fell to his knees. Mumbling to himself, he clutched his hands into fists as electricity started to dance and crackle over his fingers.

“Anders, what-” began Hawke, confused, even as Fenris cried out “No, Anders, don't-!”

The bolt of lightning hit Hawke full in the chest, throwing the rogue back off his feet and slamming him hard against the wall even as Varric burst into the room, Bianca swinging down off his back into his ready hands. Anders swayed on his knees even as the electricity danced over his outstretched hand.

“Anders, no, stop!” cried Fenris.

Anders lowered his hand and stared at the elf. “Master?” he asked weakly. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed upon the floor.

“Master?” repeated Varric.

“ _Master??_ ” echoed Hawke as he picked himself up of the floor. If Fenris had thought Hawke looked angry before, it was nothing compared to the fury in his glare now. “Fenris. Start talking. _Now._ ”

 

 

 

Fenris picked himself back up off the floor, dabbing at the blood trickling from his nose as Varric held back Hawke. The rogue was beyond words, his face flushed a deep ugly red as he glared with murderous rage at the elf. Fenris kept his head low, not daring to even try and meet the human's eyes.

“Easy, Hawke,” soothed the dwarf as he took advantage of his burly strength and lower centre of gravity to manhandle the rogue back across the room to the other side of the bed, well away from the bruised and battered elf.

“So help me Maker, I will kill him. Unhand me, Varric,” growled Hawke.

“And how will that help Anders?” replied the dwarf as he stared up at the man who towered over him. “You saw how Blondie took it when you tried to take away his 'master'.” Behind him, Fenris winced as he turned away, his shoulders slumping. He cast a troubled glance at the unconscious mage, once more laid supine upon the bed, the slight lift and fall of his chest with each breath the only sign of life.

“I would never have believed you capable of such depravity if I had not seen the evidence with my own eyes, Fenris,” growled Hawke. “He was your friend – your _lover_. How could you do that to him? Have the past months been only a lie?”

“Maybe that fight with Danarius... scrambled things a little inside, Hawke,” argued Varric. “We all know that bastard did a number on Broody's brain long ago. Who knows what enchantments he worked into him along with the lyrium? Blood magic is....” The dwarf shivered. “What Fenris described... it sounds like something his old master would have done. Are we sure it wasn't just some parting gift from the magister?”

Fenris shook his head. “No. I will not excuse myself. There is no explanation for what I did that can ever undo the harm I have done to Anders. Whether it were some last trick of Danarius' or no, it was my hand that harmed him, my will that did this, no other. In my anger I turned on the one least deserving of it.” He turned back to Hawke, his eyes darkened by misery.

“I do not deserve forgiveness – his or yours. All I ask is that you help me put right the wrong I have done.”

Hawke drew himself upright, staring at the elf who stood with head bowed, shoulders slumped. After long moments of silence, finally the rogue nodded slowly.

“Understand, elf – I'll help, but for _his_ sake – not yours. You're going to fix this, and we're going to help you, because Anders deserves our help.”

“Thank you,” breathed the elf.

“Well, now we got the shouting and bleeding out of the way, what next?” said Varric, clapping his hands together with an air of forced cheerfulness.

“Good question,” replied Hawke. “I have absolutely no fucking idea.”

 

 

 

Anders would not be parted from Fenris. After he took down both Hawke and Varric before collapsing the second time Hawke tried to insist Fenris left, Hawke gave up and allowed the elf to stay, but he was adamant that Anders was not to return to the clinic in that state, and nor would he allow him to return to Fenris' mansion. So for the time being, the elf and the mage moved into the spare room in Hawke's house.

Hawke paced the floor in his small library. The atmosphere in the room felt strange. Fenris was a brooding presence, standing beside the fireplace. Varric sat in an armchair, polishing Bianca's stock. Anders sat silently upon the couch, eyes lowered.

“Anders-” began Hawke; the mage's head lifted immediately, eyes fixed attentively upon the rogue. Hawke broke off, discomforted by Anders' whole demeanour. Hawke cleared his throat and tried again. “Anders, what do you want?”

“To be a good mage. To serve.” His voice was low, quiet, meek.

“Yes, you said that before – but what do _you_ want? What does _Anders_ want for himself?”

The mage blinked and shook his head. “I have no wants, Messere,” he replied quietly.

“It's like he's been made Tranquil, only without the brand,” sighed Hawke in frustration.

“He will do whatever you ask, without question,” rumbled Fenris quietly.

“Anything?” asked Varric.

“See for yourself,” replied Fenris. “Anders.” The mage looked to him attentively. “Do whatever Hawke asks.”

“Yes, Master,” replied Anders simply.

“Blondie,” said Varric. The mage glanced at the dwarf with that same attentive expression – _just like Hawke's mabari_ thought Varric. “If Hawke were to order you to do something that would hurt you, would you do it?”

“A mage should be obedient,” replied Anders quietly. “I am a good mage.” There was a flicker of apprehension in the amber eyes, but his voice remained steady and calm.

“Anders, come here,” said Hawke, his expression troubled. Immediately Anders slipped from his seat and knelt at Hawke's feet. Hawke's eyes widened but he said nothing. Instead he slipped a dagger from his sleeve and held it out to the mage hilt first. “Would you – cut yourself? If I asked?” he asked.

“A mage should be obedient,” repeated Anders as he took the knife, but his hand trembled a little. “I-I am a _good_ mage.” He stared at the blade in his hand.

“Hawke, please – no!” began Fenris, but Hawke glared him into silence.

“Put the blade against your throat,” suggested Hawke. The hand holding the knife trembled visibly, but to Hawke's horror Anders lifted the blade and placed it against his own throat, tilting his head back. The amber eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“I am a _good_ mage,” he repeated in a whisper, and knelt there, staring up at Hawke, the bright blade gleaming in the firelight.

“Stop.” Hawke's voice came out in a strangled whisper. “Drop the knife.” Varric was staring at the mage in horrified fascination.

The knife fell from nerveless fingers. “I-I am... I am a good mage?” Anders' voice wavered, a single tear running slowly down his cheek. Hawke turned away with a groan of self-disgust as Fenris threw himself down upon his knees beside the mage and wrapped his strong arms around the trembling apostate, murmuring that he was a very good mage, the best mage ever.

“I am a good mage,” repeated Anders softly as he buried his face against Fenris' chest.


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting with the Arishok went about as well as could be expected – which is to say, Hawke left feeling frustrated and as though he would have been better off beating his head against a brick wall, except at least the Arishok wasn't leading his Qunari on a rampage through the city, so Hawke had to conclude the mission was a success. The headache was the same though.

Anders was silent. He did as he was told, went where he was directed, spoke only when spoken to and then only when actually asked a question. The rest of the time, he was a blond ghost in tatty leather and feathers, drifting along like a shadow a few steps behind the elf, eyes downcast, silent.

It was unnerving. Hawke would never have thought he would actually miss the mage's sarcastic banter, but to his surprise he did. He missed the mage. Instead, it was like a second mabari following at his heels. No, worse; Dog at least was affectionate and had a mind of his own as he mooched around beside the rogue.

None of them spoke of what had happened the previous evening. For his part, Hawke was deeply troubled by his own reactions to the sight of Anders upon his knees, Hawke's blade at his throat, prepared to spill his own blood at Hawke's command. It was wrong that any man should have such control over another.

It was also wrong that Hawke found it incredibly arousing. The sight of Anders on his knees conjured up the most delicious thoughts of other ways Anders could serve. Putting that mouth to good use for a start. He'd idly daydreamed before about forcing Anders to his knees, having the mage wrap those expressive pink lips around his cock; how good it would feel to have the mage service him as he thrust into that hot, wet, inviting mouth and-

Maker, he could feel his pants growing uncomfortably tight as he thought about it. He surreptitiously rearranged himself whilst pausing ostensibly to look over some wares on a merchant's stall on their way towards the Hanged Man. He would have to do something about this.

“Hawke, I need to fetch some of Anders' things from the clinic,” said Fenris quietly. “Would you...?”

“No problem,” replied Hawke. “I'll take Anders back home. Varric, the usual game tonight?”

“As ever, Hawke. Hope you're prepared to lose, because I'm not!”

Hawke snorted derisively as he waved off the dwarf and led Anders and Dog back towards the stairs leading back towards Hightown. But inside he felt a growing excitement as Anders followed meekly at his heels.

No, this was wrong. He shouldn't even be thinking of such things. And yet....

Hawke looked back at the mage; Anders followed silently behind him, head bowed, though he lifted his head as though aware of Hawke's silent scrutiny.

“Anders.”

“Yes Hawke,” said Anders meekly as he came forward at Hawke's gesture.

“If Fenris told you to turn yourself in to the Chantry, what would you do?”

“I would go to the Chantry and submit myself to the templars, Hawke,” replied Anders quietly. “I would be obedient.”

“Even though the templars would punish you for being an apostate?”

Anders lowered his eyes, his expression troubled. “A mage should be obedient and submit to the will of the Chantry and his masters,” he murmured.

“What if I told you to go to the Gallows?” asked Hawke as he opened the door to the mansion. Anders lifted worried eyes to the rogue.

“Is it your wish I should go?” he asked, a faint tremor in his voice.

Hawke stared at Anders, then pulled him into the shelter of the house and closed the door behind them.

Bodahn was out on an errand somewhere, Orana busy in the kitchen. They were alone. Anders stared at him, an anxious look in his eyes. Finally Hawke relented.

“No. No, it is not,” he admitted. He almost missed the look of profound relief that flickered across the mage's face before he schooled it into calm neutrality.

Hawke stepped closer to Anders. Though tall, the mage still had to lift his head slightly to look the rogue in the eyes. This close, Hawke could smell the subtle scents of elfroot, lyrium and musk that were unmistakably Anders, and he felt the stirrings of desire in his groin again. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled upon a groan.

He took Anders by the arm and led him upstairs to the library. Anders allowed himself to be led, unresisting and submissive. The library was dark, the drapes still drawn over the windows and the embers dead in the fireplace. Hawke drew Anders close to him and held the mage's pale face between his hands, staring into the amber eyes before gently rubbing a thumb across Anders' brow. The apostate's forehead was unmarred by any brand, but he was as docile and meek as any Tranquil in the yard of the Gallows.

“You once told me you'd sooner die than be Tranquil, Anders,” he breathed quietly. “Do you still believe that?”

Anders stared into his eyes silently, making no answer.

“Will you not speak?” whispered Hawke.

“A good mage is silent,” whispered Anders.

“And do you wish to be a good mage, Anders?”

The answering _yes_ was barely a ghost of a whisper upon the mage's exhalation as he folded to his knees at Hawke's feet. Deft hands reached for Hawke's pants, unlacing him, and then warm, sure hands were palming his eager member as it sprung free of the fabric. Anders' blond head bobbed in the gloom and then warm, inviting wetness swallowed his member, drawing him in as the mage's tongue expertly swirled about the engorged head of his cock.

Hawke groaned as he buried his hands in Anders' loose blond hair; without thinking, his hips jerked, rutting into Anders' mouth mindlessly until he blinked and suddenly remembered where he was and what he was doing.

“No, no!” he hissed, forcing Anders' head back and pulling away from that hot, wet, inviting mouth that now distorted into an expression of distress.

“Please, master, let me-”

Hawke turned away as he fumbled with the laces of his pants, tucking himself away again. “No, Anders,” he panted. “That was wrong of me. I took advantage of you, and I should not have.”

“I have failed you,” whispered Anders in anguish. “He will be so angry with me. Please....”

Hawke turned back, aghast, as he felt hands tug at the hem of his tunic. Anders clung to the fabric, tears running down his face, glinting wetly in the gloom.

“You don't understand,” sobbed Anders quietly. “He will be so very angry with me. Let me please you, I beg you! Use me. Let me be a good mage. You want me, I can tell. Please.”

“Not like this,” groaned Hawke as he caught hold of Anders' wrists and pulled him to his feet. “Anders, he won't be angry. I swear it. You don't have to do this.”

“But I have to be obedient! Bad mages must be punished!” cried Anders. “Please, I will be punished!”

“Who will punish you, Anders? Who's going to punish you?” asked Hawke, holding the mage firmly with his arms pinned by his sides.

“My M-master,” choked Anders. “I h-have to be a _good_ mage, o-obedient....”

“I will punish you then,” whispered Hawke, hating himself even as he said the words. He hated himself even more as he saw the look of pathetic gratefulness in the mage's eyes.

“Yes, oh yes please, Master!” he begged.

“Go to my room. Lie face down on the bed with your wrists crossed in the small of your back, and do not move until Fenris calls you.”

Anders pulled away, nodding. “Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. I will be a good mage.” He turned and fled from the room.

Hawke dragged a tired hand over his face and groaned in the darkness. After a while, he followed the mage slowly to the bedroom. He halted in the doorway and stared.

Anders lay face-down upon the bed, his wrists crossed in the small of his back as though he had been bound. He lay perfectly still, the sounds of his breathing muffled against the down comforter.

Hawke watched him for several long moments, then turned and left in silence.

This was going to be a harder problem to solve than he had thought. They were going to need help to bring Anders back from this one.

 

 

 

 

Hawke was on his second glass of wine by the time Fenris arrived back at the house. Fenris lifted an eyebrow in surprise as he took in the sight of Hawke slumped morosely in his chair, bottle on the floor beside his foot, nursing his nearly-empty glass in the light from the fire in the downstairs reception. Fenris paused just inside the door, a bundle of Anders' belongings in his arms.

“Where is Anders?” he asked, glancing around the otherwise-empty room.

“Upstairs. On my bed. Waiting for you,” replied Hawke, not looking at the elf. Fenris frowned, then headed upstairs. There was silence for a few minutes, and then the elf flew down the stairs and burst into the room, glaring at the rogue.

“What did you do, Hawke?” he demanded, voice low and threatening.

“Nothing,” replied Hawke.

“You lie! The mage -”

“Is unharmed. I did nothing,” replied Hawke.

“Then why-”

Hawke finally looked up. “Because nothing happened. He felt he needed to be punished for failing to please me. So I told him to lie like that until you got back.”

“Punished?” Fenris blanched.

“Yes, punished,” nodded Hawke as he pushed himself up out of the chair and faced the elf. “He was afraid you would be angry with him and want to punish him. So I sent him to my room and told him not to move until you called him.”

“He has lain like that all this while?”

Hawke nodded, downing the last of his wine. “A couple of hours, at my guess.”

Fenris turned and headed back upstairs. After a a few minutes, Hawke heard low voices, and then a moment later Fenris returned downstairs, Anders following meekly behind him. He did not lift his eyes; when Fenris halted, Anders lingered a few paces behind, eyes downcast.

“Shall we go then?” asked Hawke. Fenris glanced at Anders, his lips set in a thin line, then nodded.

 

 

 

They made it to the Hanged Man in good time. Hawke was glad to see that he, Fenris and Anders were the first ones there beside Varric. He was not looking forward to trying to explain Anders' whole change in demeanour to the others.

He sat Anders in the corner, between himself and Varric. Fenris noted this but said nothing, excusing himself to disappear down to the common room to fetch their drinks. When he returned, Hawke was surprised to see he had bought a large tankard of ale for Anders.

“I thought Blondie never drinks, Broody?” remarked Varric. “Justice doesn't approve or something like that.”

Anders stared at the tankard of ale but said nothing, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

“I've seen no sign of his demon since the day Danarius died,” replied Fenris. “It certainly never tried to protect him.”

Varric gave Anders a sharp look, but the mage did not so much as bat an eyelid at mention of Justice, let alone correct the elf when he called the spirit a demon. “Blondie, where's Justice?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Anders replied, his voice devoid of tone, not looking up from the tankard.

“Do you want a drink, Blondie?”

Anders glanced up at Fenris questioningly. The elf nodded. “You may drink.” The apostate reached for the mug with both hands and took a long steady drink of the beer, not even grimacing at the sharp acidic taste.

“Easy, Blondie,” remarked Varric. “Corff's brew can take you by surprise if you're not used to it.”

“Let him get drunk if he wants,” Hawke waved dismissively. “It might even help.”

Anders hesitated. “Is it my Masters' wish that I get drunk?” he murmured.

Hawke eyed him shrewdly then slapped his hand on the table. “Yes, it damned well is my wish,” he announced. Anders bowed his head, then lifted the tankard and began to drain it.

“Hawke, are you sure that is a good idea?” wondered Fenris.

“No, but unless you've got a better one, we'll go with getting him drunk for now,” replied Hawke, taking a pull of his own beer. Eyeing the way Anders was putting away the contents of the tankard, Varric made his way downstairs to have a word with a barmaid.

 

 

 

By the time Isabela and Merrill showed up, Anders was on his third tankard.

Isabela eyed up the two large empties in front of the mage. “Been a long day, sweet thing?” she drawled as she straddled a chair and eyed him thoughtfully. Anders paused in mid -swallow and darted a glance at Fenris and Hawke, but the two men were distracted by Sebastian's arrival. Anders dropped his gaze back to the beer.

Isabela frowned; Hawke had vacated his seat briefly to look at a scrap of parchment Sebastian had brought to show him, so the Rivaini pirate slipped deftly into the rogue's seat. “What's wrong, Anders?” she said quietly, fingering a half-healed scar on his cheek. Anders didn't look up.

“Anders, look at me,” she ordered. Caught by a direct request, Anders was forced to comply. Slowly, unwillingly, he lifted his head and stared at her, his amber eyes dark. He had trouble focussing on her face. “What's wrong?” she asked him quietly; his lips parted, but only a faint whine escaped. Isabela frowned, then placed her hand over the mouth of the tankard as he made t drink again.

“Anders. Tell me what's wrong,” she ordered him.

Anders opened and closed his mouth, then nodded slowly. “Yes, Mistress,” he whispered. “Fenris – he-”

“Wait – whoah, back up there sweetie, _what_ did you just call me?” she exclaimed, shocked.

Five heads whipped round in unison to stare at Anders and Isabela.

“Anders, _silence!_ ” ordered Hawke. Anders shut his mouth instantly.

“Hey, no, uh-uh – don't you dare, Hawke, this is too delicious!” exclaimed Isabela. “What, is this some kind of game? What are you guys up to?”

“Isabela, this is no game,” said Fenris warningly as the Rivaini pirate draped an arm around Anders' shoulders.

“C'mon, fair's fair – don't keep all the fun to yourselves, boys!” She eyed Anders delightedly. “Mistress, eh? A girl could get used to that! Say it again!”

“No!” chorused Hawke and Fenris in unison. Anders, who had opened his mouth obediently, instantly shut it again.

“Rivaini, you going to deal these cards or shall I?” called Varric.

“Oh, very well,” groused Isabela. “Give us a kiss for luck Anders,” she added distractedly.

Before Hawke or Fenris could say a word, Anders had leaned forward and claimed Isabela's mouth with a kiss. She let out a surprised, muffled squeal that turned into a note of delight as she slid herself into his lap and began to enthusiastically return the kiss. Anders' hands remained in his lap but his eyes were closed and he leaned into Isabela's embrace, surrendering his mouth to her plundering tongue willingly and silently.

“Anders, stop,” ordered Hawke. Anders disengaged instantly, opening his eyes and blinking, disorientated as Isabela made a noise of annoyance.

“No, don't stop!” she protested. Anders looked from Isabela to Hawke and then back again, a look of distress upon his face.

“Stop it, all of you, stop it!” cried Merrill. “Don't you see? You're pulling the poor thing every which way until he doesn't know which way to look!”

“Get your hands off him, wench!” growled Fenris as he advanced on the elf.

“Oh no, now wait, this is ridiculous,” said Isabela, nonetheless getting up and swiftly vacating Anders' lap. “He's a grown man, he can make his own decisions, and it's up to him who he kisses. He's not your property, Fenris – or have you taken up slave ownership whilst I wasn't looking?”

Fenris flushed, his eyes dark and dangerous, but hesitated, saying nothing.

“Anders,” said a quiet voice, drawing the mage's attention. “Speak the truth. Are you Fenris' slave now?”

Anders stared at Sebastian then closed his eyes, swaying slightly. Then he nodded. “I-I am a... a _good_ mage,” he slurred insistently.

All hell broke loose then, with everyone shouting at once. Isabela was calling Fenris a damnable hypocrite, Hawke ordering both Isabela and Anders to shut the hell up, Sebastian demanding they surrender Anders to his care immediately so he could take him to the Circle where he would be safe, and Varric shouting for everyone to shut the hell up including Hawke or they could all get the hell out of his rooms except for Anders.

Anders stood stock still, obediently silent, swaying drunkenly even as Merrill crept round the table and quietly hugged him. It was only after she climbed on a chair so she could get close enough to whisper in his ear that finally he opened his eyes and sat down. Merrill whispered in his ear once more, and Anders nodded before covering his face with his hands, hunching in upon himself.

“ _ENOUGH!!”_ roared Varric, and there was sudden silence. Hawke opened his mouth to speak but Varric brandished a finger in his direction. “Not another word, Hawke. I've heard quite enough from you this evening.” He turned to Sebastian. “Blondie is not going to the Chantry, with you or anyone else, so you can forget that idea Chantry Boy.” He waggled a finger at Hawke and Isabela. “You two can cut it out as well. Rivaini, quit taking advantage of Blondie. Hawke, drop it. Anders isn't your pet mabari, so stop treating him like one.” He glared at Fenris until the elf also backed down. “You, Broody – don't you get me started. The reason Blondie is in this state to begin with is entirely your fault to begin with.” The dwarf and the elf exchanged glares; to everyone's surprise, the elf backed down first, dropping his eyes and turning away.

There was silence then, broken only by the sounds of stifled crying. All eyes turned to look at Anders, who was curled in upon himself, face buried in his hands as Merrill stood beside him, rubbing his back soothingly.

Varric turned back to the others. “Blondie stays here,” he stated in a final tone. Hawke and Fenris opened their mouths but then shut them again as the dwarf glared them into silence.

There was an awkward tension in the air, no-one quite daring to speak for a few minutes; then Sebastian rose to his feet. “I think perhaps I ought to head back to the chantry,” he said softly. “Varric, if I may be of service in any way....”

Varric nodded. “I know where to find you, Sebastian,” he replied.

“And that would be my cue to leave too,” observed Isabela with a nod. She glanced in Anders' direction. “I'm sorry sweet thing. I had no idea. I...” She sighed regretfully, then looked at Varric. “I'll be downstairs if you need me,” she added, then headed down the stairs after Sebastian.

Hawke and Fenris looked at each other, then at the dwarf.

“You saw how he reacted when Hawke tried to drive me away before,” Fenris began.

“It seems to me that if you _told_ him to stay, he'd be just fine,” replied Varric, fingering his chin thoughtfully. Hawke and Fenris exchanged another glance, then Fenris cleared his throat.

“Anders.”

The mage lifted his head and stared at Fenris, his eyes redrimmed. “Master?” he said quietly.

Fenris glanced to Varric, then back at Anders. “Stay with Varric. Obey him as you would me, whilst I am- while I'm gone.”

“Master?” said Anders bewildered.

“Stay, Anders,” said Hawke. “That's an order.” With a last glance back at Varric, the rogue turned and headed towards the stairs, pushing the reluctant elf ahead of him.

Varric sighed and rubbed his face. “You can stay, Daisy,” he said tiredly. “Maker, how do I keep ending up in this shit?” He shook his head and glanced at Anders. “Blondie, you make me exhausted just looking at you. Go to bed and go to sleep.” He pointed at his own bed, and the mage silently crept over to it, laying down and pulling the blanket over himself as he closed his eyes.

“We Dalish don't have slaves,” remarked Merrill as she took a seat at the table. “What will you do with him.”

“Good question, Daisy. I'm all ears if you have any suggestions.”

Anders was very, very drunk. Obeying Varric's order to sleep came easily to him. As Varric sighed and reached for his flagon of ale, the mage began very softly to snore.


	4. Chapter 4

His head ached appallingly. Something appeared to have died in his mouth, from the taste. And someone appeared to be sawing wood, at whatever Maker-be-damned hour of the morning this was. To cap it all off, a feather was tickling his nose and he desperately needed to pee.

Stifling a moan, Anders peeled one eye open blearily.

He blinked. This wasn't his clinic. Nor was it Fenris' mansion, or (he racked his brains for where else he had been sleeping recently) the spare room in Hawke's house. Where was he? Where was Fenris?

The droning, sawing noise was still going on; glancing round the room, he spotted Varric asleep in a chair, mouth open, snoring heavily.

Ah. Varric's room. He was in Varric's bed, in the Hanged Man.

He put a hand to his head to cast a little healing magic and ease the damnable aching in his skull, but hastily snatched his hand away. _Master said no magic._ A sick feeling settled into his stomach, already feeling a little fragile after last night's heavy drinking.

He curled up on his side, brushing the tickling feather from his pauldron away from his nose as he hunched over. He still needed to pee, but without Master there he wasn't sure what the rules were. He darted another glance at the sleeping dwarf and squirmed uncomfortably.

He needed to pee. But if he did the wrong thing, Master would find out and be angry. He shivered in fear, caught in indecision. He couldn't, _mustn't_ pee the bed. But he didn't know if he were allowed up from the bed yet. Varric had told him to go to bed and go to sleep. He hadn't told him what to do when he awoke after though.

Maybe if he went quickly to the privy, he could sneak back into bed before the dwarf woke up and no-one would be the wiser. Yes, that would be best. No-one would know he'd disobeyed Hawke's command to stay.

He slipped from the covers, and silently made his way past the sleeping dwarf and out into the corridor in search of the privy. There was no-one around as he prowled down the passage to the end of the hall. He slipped inside, fumbling with his pants hurriedly, and then breathed a silent sigh of relief as he let go.

A voice in the back of his mind said that this was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He should not be creeping about in fear because he needed to pee! Anders shook his head. No. Dangerous to think that way. Master had thoroughly beaten it into him; he was going to be a _good_ mage and do what he was told. Magic was made to serve Man. He was made to serve.

_By being afraid to take a piss without permission?_

He clutched his head in his hands and bit back a moan. No. Such thoughts were wrong. Master said so. He was not allowed to think for himself. Mages were weak. They could not be trusted to think for themselves. They needed to be guarded, guided, for their own sakes.

“A good mage is an obedient mage,” he whispered to himself. Shaking his head, he tucked himself away and turned to sneak back to his room -

Only to walk into Isabela the moment he stepped out of the privy.

“Well, hel _lo_ , sweet thing!” purred Isabela as she stepped in close – _too close –_ and smiled. Anders felt a surge of panic as she pressed her body against his, slipping a hand around his waist and pressing it against the small of his back. He dropped his eyes to the ground.

_Obey. Be meek. Serve._

“What, no 'good morning Isabela'?” chided the Rivaini pirate with a mock pout.

“Good morning, Isabela,” he murmured quietly.

“Hmm, maybe you should call me Mistress again, I rather liked that,” she purred.

“Yes, Mistress,” replied Anders docilely. He was trapped. There was no way he would be able to sneak back to the bed now without disturbing Varric. _Master will be angry._ He bit his lip.

Isabela frowned. “No... actually, I don't think I care to hear you say it after all,” she said thoughtfully. “Not like this.”

“Mistress?” asked Anders, lifting his eyes fearfully. _Mistress is angry now. I have done wrong. I will be punished._

“Anders, don't look like that, darling, you're not in trouble,” said Isabela soothingly as she lifted her hand from his back instead to cup his cheek. He stared at her, troubled. She had no idea.

She returned his stare for a moment, then inclined her head. “Come with me,” she said.

Faced with a direct request, Anders could only obey. He followed meekly, dropping his eyes back down to the scuffed wooden floorboards as Isabela led him to her room. Once inside, she pointed to the bed.

“Sit down,” she said, her voice gentle. As Anders perched self-consciously on the edge of the bed, she made her way to a tall cabinet. Opening a door, she pulled out a small flagon of a dark amber liquid and a couple of small cups before returning to sit beside him. She handed him a cup then poured them each a couple of fingers of the liquor. “Drink,” she ordered, tossing down her own cup in one shot.

Anders obediently drank; the alcohol burned with a pleasant warming fire down his gullet and somehow seemed to clear his head at the same time. He eyed the amber liquid in the flagon appreciatively.

“Kont'arri firewine,” said Isabela. “Good for the morning after the night before.” She refilled his cup and her own. She toasted him silently then sipped it, savouring its taste. Anders hesitated then, at an encouraging nod, followed suit.

“So. You're Fenris' pet slave mage now.”

Anders let his gaze drop to his hands and the small cup, turning it in his hands as he stared into the amber depths of the firewine. Isabela sighed, then her eyes hardened as she stared at the mage. “Very well, we'll do this your way. Anders, I _order_ you to answer my questions fully and truthfully. Are you Fenris' pet slave now?”

Anders' head jerked up, eyes widening as Isabela gave him no way out with her words. His lips parted but he was silent for a moment, and then a look of resignation and gratitude washed over his face as he surrendered inwardly. He didn't have to hide it. He had been _ordered_ to speak. It was in Isabela's hands now. All he had to do was be a good mage and obey.

_I am a good mage._

“Yes,” he answered simply. “He is my master.”

“Why?”

“Because mages cannot be trusted. I am weak and easily tempted. I must be watched over, guarded, guided. Protected. Magic was made to serve Man. I must serve. It is my rightful place. I am a good mage.”

“Oh sweet thing,” breathed Isabela. “What did Fenris _do_ to you?”

He told her.

 

Anders had never seen Isabela cry. She didn't cry now, but she was deeply affected in a way he'd never seen her be touched before. He didn't think he'd ever seen her composure shaken so badly. She was pacing her room in agitation, dark brown eyes blazing with anger in a way he had never witnessed, in all the years he'd known and worked with the Rivaini pirate here in Kirkwall.

She paused and stared down at him. “I'm not going to kill him,” she said suddenly. Anders blinked. She laughed, but it was a grim sound. “Oh no. Killing would be too good for him. Besides, he's probably wallowing in drunken self-pity right now anyway; it wouldn't be a fair fight at all. Not that I'd know anything about fighting fair, mind you.”

She crouched down in front of Anders and gently stroked his cheek lightly with the backs of her fingers. “Don't look so worried, sweet thing,” she murmured. “It's not _you_ I'm angry with. You've done nothing wrong.”

“Am I....”

“You've been a _very_ good mage,” she said gently as she sat down upon the bed and pulled him into her arms, cradling his chest against her breasts and stroking his hair. She sighed. “But a very naughty mage is much more fun. I much prefer you when you're being naughty, Anders. A good Anders just doesn't seem _right_. I think I even prefer Justice to Good Little Mage Anders; at least there was fire and life to Justice, even with that collossal stick in his arse.”

Anders trembled. “But Master says I have to be a _good_ mage,” he whispered.

Isabela pulled back and cupped his cheek in her warm brown palm. “Fuck Master,” she said. “What do _you_ want, Anders?” She raised a finger. “I don't want to hear anything about _good mages_ , either.”

Anders stared at her with a grimace of dismay then buried his head in his hands.

“What do you want, sweet thing?” she repeated, quieter.

He lifted his head slowly, his amber eyes dull with despair. “For this nightmare to be over,” he breathed.

“Do you want to be free?”

“I don't deserve freedom,” he whispered. “I'm an abomination. I can't be trusted. I must trust Master, do as he says. Master knows best.” His voice was flat, dead.

“Then why did you ever run away from the Circle in the first place?” she asked gently.

“Because....” His voice tailed off. “Because I was... wrong. The Circle... protects. Mages need to be... protected. And people must be protected from mages. The Circle... is there for our own good.” The words came haltingly. He had been taught this all his life, the lessons beaten into him, just as his Master had beaten it into him. His back was scarred with that lesson, taught over and over again. The fists and whips of the Templars. The long nights, weeks, months – a year of darkness to burn that lesson indelibly into his brain. And then his Master broke him again to remake the lesson anew.

He stared at his hands; they were clenched into fists, trembling. He remembered the manacles about his wrists, his skin bruised, bloodied. The whip laid into his flesh. The Chant of Light recited over and over, drilling the lesson into his mind until he could recite it as well as Sebastian.

_Abomination. Vile creature. Lowest of the low._ The feel of the gauntlet inside, tearing, shredding his fragile skin. Hands about his throat, choking him. A hand phased into his chest, fingers clenched around his heart until he repeated his master's words.

“I am a good mage. I am a good mage. I am a good mage.”

He hadn't realised he had spoken aloud until Isabela laid a slender hand over his shaking fist.

“You are a good _man_ ,” she said firmly. “And all good men deserve freedom.”

He lifted his head slowly and looked into her warm, fierce brown eyes.

“Help me, Isabela,” he whispered.

“What do you want, Anders?”

“I want to be free,” he breathed. She grinned suddenly, a flash of bright white teeth against the dusky loveliness. She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet.

“Come on,” she said.

“Where to?” he asked, letting her tug him along.

“To talk to Varric,” she replied. “I have an idea.”

 

Varric whirled round as they burst into his room. “Rivaini! Blondie is -” He broke off with a groan of relief. “He's with you. Of course he's with you.” He frowned. “You didn't....”

“I was a _good_ girl!” objected Isabela. “Unlike Hawke.”

“Oh?” frowned Varric, settling himself down at the head of the table.

“Hawke has been rather naughty, taking advantage of our favourite apostate,” remarked Isabela, perching a hip on the edge of the table as she leaned over and filched a sausage from Varric's breakfast. The dwarf gestured to Anders to sit, waving at a second laden plate.

“Eat up, Blondie; Maker knows you need it.” He called down for a third plate for Isabela, then sat back again. “What did he do?” He frowned at Anders. The mage stared at the food, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Seems Hawke started to give in to temptation then thought better of it,” replied Isabela, filching a second sausage.

“Much as you did last night? Hey, that's mine, wait for your own, Rivaini!”

“The difference being that I didn't know Anders would do anything I told him to,” replied Isabela as she slid into the seat on the other side of the table across from Anders. “Hawke had no such excuse. He knew Anders would do whatever he asked and was eager to please, terrified that Fenris would punish him if he didn't.”

“Punish him?” said Varric, eyes narrowing. “And not in the fun, 'Naughty Apostates and Randy Templars' kind of way I guess?”

“Kind of like that. Only without the 'fun' bit,” agreed Isabela. She darted a glance at Anders, who sat staring down at his food. “I think we just put Blondie off his breakfast,” she added. Anders looked up; he did indeed look somewhat green and queasy.

Varric sighed. “I guess I'd better hear the whole story then,” he said, sitting back and eyeing Anders. “Don't look so worried, Blondie, you're not in trouble. Well, not that kind of trouble, any how.”

“Anders, sweet thing, go back to my room and bring me the firewine,” suggested Isabela. “Count to a hundred heartbeats while you're in there before you come back.”

Anders got to his feet gratefully. “Yes, Mistress,” he said without thinking.

“Anders, you are not to call me Mistress. Call me Isabela,” she ordered him.

“Yes, Mis- I mean, yes, Isabela,” nodded Anders meekly as he backed out of the room. She glanced back at Varric, who raised an eyebrow.

“A hundred heartbeats?”

“He already had to tell me the whole story once. I don't see any point in putting him through it again,” she explained. 

“Go on,” said Varric, eyes narrowing shrewdly as he leaned back, steepling his fingers before him.

 

Isabela covered the basics quickly. She didn't go into graphic details; Varric's imagination could fill in the gaps just fine. The dwarf winced several times, but beyond his frown deepening he sat perfectly still, fingertips pressed lightly together as he listened. When Isabela had finished, he breathed out slowly through his nose then shook his head.

“Blondie's never told me the whole story of what happened to him in the Circle, Rivaini, but from what I can piece together it rather sounds like Fenris basically took everything that ever happened to our mage at the hands of the Templars and did it all to him in one night. No wonder he broke.”

“Pretty much,” agreed Isabela. “Question is, how do we fix it?”

“Well, despite everything the Templars did to him, Blondie never gave up before,” replied Varric as Anders returned with the firewine. Isabela took it from him with a smile and poured them all a fingerful each.

“He was never beaten into submission by someone he loved before though, were you?” pointed out the pirate. Anders sat with his hands in his lap, staring at the cup of firewine; he shook his head.

“But still, something about you kept you going through – what, six escape attempts?”

“Seven,” answered Anders.

“What drove you on, Anders?” asked Varric. “That year you spent in solitary – what kept you going?”

“The thought of escaping again,” said Anders. “And Mr Wiggums.”

Varric choked on his firewine. “ _Who?_ ”

The ghost of a smile played about Anders' lips. “Mr Wiggums. The cat.”

Isabela and Varric exchanged a glance. “Well, I don't have a cat,” he said slowly, “but maybe we can help you escape, Blondie.”

He lifted his eyes from the cup. “My Master will be so angry,” he breathed. “He will hurt-”

Varric laid a hand on the mage's shoulder. “No-one's going to hurt you, Blondie. Least of all Fenris.”

“We promise,” agreed Isabela. “For what it's worth,” she muttered to herself as she tossed back her firewine.

“So, what's this plan of yours, Rivaini?” asked Varric after he'd downed his own firewine.

“Oh, you're going to love this,” grinned Isabela as she leaned forward.

Varric's eyes gleamed with interest as he leaned forward, steepling his hands once more. “Do tell.”


	5. Chapter 5

Isabela groaned. This was not part of the plan.

She was sprawled on her back at the foot of the cliff, and the nauseating pain radiating up her leg told her it was most definitely broken. She didn't quite dare look at how bad it was. Turning her head to her right, she could see Anders and Fenris sprawled nearby, both unconscious. Fenris lay atop the slaver who had broken his fall; the slaver was very obviously dead, but she was rather glad to see Fenris' chest rising and falling steadily. Anders lay almost within reach of her outstretched fingertips, lying upon his back, face turned slightly towards her. Blood matted his hair upon his left temple and was smeared across his cheek.

No, this was not the way it was supposed to have happened at all.

It had started well enough; between them she and Varric had tracked down a likely bunch of slavers Hawke hadn't cleared out yet, and with a little gold greasing the right palms Varric had arranged for that night's patrol to be diverted elsewhere. The slavers had captured a couple of apostates that Anders had freed from the Gallows with Hawke's help a few weeks ago; unused to life outside the Circle, they hadn't gotten very far before falling foul of the slavers. Isabela had planned to draw Hawke's attention to things anyway, but in light of Anders' current state it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up and Varric had concurred.

They'd figured that once Anders saw Fenris fighting with them against slavers to set free apostate mages – and taken an active hand in freeing those mages himself – that perhaps it might awaken a spark of fire in Anders, bring him out of his fugue state in which he were little better than one of the Tranquil. In combat he'd had to think for himself anyway, and old instincts had kicked in – though he'd been mostly silent during the fight, and Isabela had rather missed the way Anders used to taunt their enemies, inviting them to suck on fireballs.

It had all gone wrong when Varric had shouted to Anders, directing him towards one of the slavers who was flanking Fenris. “Go on, Blondie – show 'em why mages are feared!”

Anders recoiled, his face suddenly draining of colour. “No!” he'd exclaimed, horrified. “I can't – I mustn't!” He stared down at his staff, eyes wide. “Magic must s-serve man,” he stammered, backing away.

“Anders, watch out!” yelled Hawke as one of the slavers he was fighting suddenly broke past him and made straight for the paralysed mage. Fenris dispatched the slaver mage before him and sprinted towards Anders even as Isabela dove, rolled and came to her feet in front of Anders, brandishing her bloodied daggers.

“Pull yourself together!” she hissed, then grunted as the slaver barrelled into her. Her back slammed into Anders, and she heard Fenris exclaim as he caught them both; and then suddenly the dirt beneath their feet was crumbling as all four tumbled backwards over the edge of the cliff even as Isabela planted a foot in the slaver's stomach and flipped him up and over her head.

And then it was a jumble of earth, sky, flailing arms, screams – hers? Anders'? Some one else? She couldn't tell. The breath knocked out of her body as her back slammed into rock, agony lancing through her leg as she felt something give inside, and then her head glanced off something hard and she knew no more until she slowly swum up out of unconscious, groggy and in pain.

And trouble.

She squinted back up the cliff face, and swore to herself when she saw how far they'd fallen. They were lucky they hadn't broken their necks. She glanced over at Fenris and Anders, then went still as the bushes beyond Fenris' still form rustled and stirred. A wild mabari pushed it's way through the scrub and paused to sniff at the motionless elf before it lifted its head. It growled as it saw Isabela watching it, and lowering its head it started circling round Fenris and Anders, prowling closer.

“Oh hell no,” muttered Isabela as she pushed herself up on one arm and felt for a dagger. Its ears swivelled forward at her movement, then went flat as it bared its teeth.

“Anders, this would be a really good time to wake up!” called Isabela. “Fenris? Anders? Anyone?”

The mabari stalked her as she tried to push herself back, crying out as the movement awoke flaming agony that licked up her leg. She fell back as the mabari bounded towards her and screamed.

Anders opened his eyes at the sound and jerked upright. Throwing his hand out towards the mabari, he encased it in ice even as the hound gathered itself to leap, catching it in mid-stride. He staggered to his feet and followed the ice spell with a lightning bolt that killed the beast as it struggled against the ice. Then he put his hand to his bleeding head as he dropped to his knees with a groan.

“Talk about timing,” Isabela laughed shakily. “I thought I was dog food for a minute there.”

Anders didn't answer, bracing one hand against the ground as he struggled to focus enough to channel healing magic into his head wound.

“Anders?” asked Isabela quietly as he knelt there, letting his hand fall away from his head as he stared at the ground. “Are you... OK?”

Anders pushed himself upright, lifting one hand to silence her as he stared at the ground for a few minutes, swallowing hard. “I... I used magic. Without....”

“You were saving me,” said Isabela. “You had to stop the dog. And then you had to heal yourself. You were hurt. You did nothing wrong.” Her voice was quiet and gentle as she tried to reassure him.

He nodded, more a jerk of his head than any real agreement. He glanced up at her. “You're hurt too,” he observed.

“It's just my leg,” responded Isabela. “I'm not sure how bad Fenris is.”

Anders turned and looked at the fallen elf, then back at Isabela, indecision in his eyes.

“I'm not going to tell you to heal him, Anders,” said Isabela. “You're the healer. You're the one who has to decide which of us you'll heal first. You have to make that choice. I'm not going to tell you what to do.”

Anders got to his feet. “How bad are you hurt?” he asked. “Are you bleeding anywhere?”

“Nothing urgent,” replied Isabela. “My leg's broken and I suspect I have some concussion, but otherwise nothing serious.”

He nodded as he turned his attention to Fenris. He moved to the elf's side and carefully began to check him over. “It's just a head wound; concussion,” he announced. “I can take care of it.” He reached out towards the unconscious elf then hesitated.

Isabela held her tongue. The apostate seemed to be fighting some inner battle; the conditioning beaten in to him that he should only use his magic as his master directed – against the healer who knew Fenris needed aid only he could give.

The healer won. Anders cradled the injured head carefully with his hands as they glowed with blue healing magic.

As Fenris groaned and opened his eyes, Anders stared anxiously down at the elf and then hurriedly snatched his hands away, fearful of his master's anger. Fenris merely stared up at him.

Anders glanced over at Isabela, then down at the elf, ducking his head and not quite making eye contact as Fenris sat up.

“You healed me unbidden,” rumbled the elf quietly. Anders gasped and hunched in upon himself, nodding wretchedly. Fenris regarded him for a few minutes as Anders shivered, evidently expecting to be punished.

“Anders.” The apostate looked up, fearful. The elf smiled gently. “Thank you.”

Anders stared into the elf's eyes, and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, relaxed. “I... I won't be punished?” he breathed.

Fenris shook his head as he reached out to gently clasp Anders' shoulders. “You are free,” he told him gently. “Do as you will. I will not harm you, now or ever again, I swear it.”

Anders tried to smile, but the shaky laugh that escaped his lips had more than a touch of hysteria about it.

“Touching as this all is, my leg's still broken,” interjected Isabela. “I hate to disturb you boys, but I could really use Anders' magic touch right now.”

Fenris gently pulled Anders to his feet then pushed him lightly away. Anders stumbled a little, then turned and hastened to Isabela's side.

 

 

Isabela was still limping, her arms slung around the shoulders of Anders and Fenris on either side of her when Hawke and Varric finally found them, making their way slowly back up the path.

“Maker, you're all OK!” exclaimed Hawke as he and the dwarf hurried to join them. “We couldn't see you from the top of the cliff – we were afraid we were going to find your bodies down there.” He stepped in to Isabela's side and nudged Anders away as he took Isabela's arm and slung it around his own shoulders, the tall apostate stepping away and grimacing with a pained look as he stretched, spine cracking audibly. Isabela and Fenris were both shorter than him by a head, and the last quarter-mile stretch had been growing increasingly uncomfortable for him though he had said nothing.

“Takes more than a little tumble to put me down, Hawke,” grinned Isabela as she gave him a nudge with her hip.

“That 'little tumble' broke your leg,” Fenris pointed out.

Anders let them walk on a few steps ahead of him as he pressed his hands into the small of his back. Surreptitiously he let a little healing magic trickle into his spine – just enough to relieve the worst of the ache. He didn't think it was enough to draw Fenris' attention; at any rate, the elf didn't react, so Anders felt he'd probably gotten away with it.

Varric, bringing up the rear, noticed the sneaky way Anders healed himself when he thought no-one was looking, and grinned. He didn't think the apostate's irrepressible nature and natural rule-breaking tendencies would have been quelled for long, and he was glad to see evidence he had been correct. Anders kept his head down, walking silently behind Isabela and the others, but Varric's keen eyes noticed how one hand kept straying back to touch the staff slung upon his back every now and then, as though for reassurance.

They headed straight for the Hanged Man, Hawke sweeping Isabela off her feet as he carried her up the short flight of stairs to Varric's rooms, Fenris following behind as Anders and the dwarf brought up the rear, calling to Corff to send up a round of drinks. Hawke deposited Isabela in a chair at the large wooden table before sliding into the seat next to her; Fenris dropped into a seat opposite, divesting himself of his greatsword before stripping off his gauntlets.

Varric paused a moment to gently replace Bianca upon her stand beside his seat at the head of the table before turning to Anders and gesturing to him to sit down beside him. Anders unslung his staff, leaning it against the side of his chair before sinking down into the high-backed seat with a faint sigh, leaning back against the cushion and letting his head drop back against the headrest for a moment before he suddenly hastily straightened and glanced at Fenris.

“Relax, Blondie,” said Varric. Hawke nodded at the apostate. With another wary glance at the elf who was studiously ignoring him, Anders slumped back into the chair.

“This leg is going to be quite the nuisance,” remarked Isabela as the drinks arrived. “I think I may need to have you take another look at it later Anders.”

“You should keep your weight off it as much as possible,” replied the blond mage quietly as he reached for a tankard, darting another brief glance at the elf. Fenris appeared to be ignoring him, and no-one else batted an eyelid as he took a sip.

The brew was harsh and acid, like all of Corff's fare, but after the week he'd been having he desperately needed a drink. There was no inner surge of disapproval at the thought, which he wondered at but chose not to question. Justice had been noticeably silent since Danarius' death and the events of that night.

As he took another pull of the beer, Anders could feel the alcohol starting to work on him, relaxing him, and he leaned forward to rest his arms upon the table, head down but quietly listening as the others began to unwind, the banter starting to flow. He was content to sit, sipping his beer, listening to his friends. He felt almost normal, for the first time since that horrendous night when Fenris turned on him.

Merrill joined them an hour later, when they were onto the third round of drinks – though Anders was still quietly nursing his second pint. No-one seemed to be pushing alcohol at him tonight, and he didn't particularly want to get drunk – but the buzz after the first pint was pleasant, and he was more relaxed. He was content to sit and let the conversation wash over him, the waves of initial anxiety over what he was expected to do mostly dissipated as Fenris continued to ignore him without entirely seeming to and the others treating him just as they always had. They were giving him space, he realised – freedom to drink or not, as he chose; to talk or stay silent as he wished.

Merrill gave a delighted squeak as she caught sight of him, which surprised him; he'd never particularly thought of Merrill as a friend – more a walking disaster just waiting for somewhere to happen, courting demons with blood magic which he wanted none of. Truth be told, he was afraid to get too close to her, pleasant though she was to be around – he didn't think he could handle it if they were to become friends, only for the inevitable to happen and her friends have to take her down when one demon or another finally got the better of her. Easier to keep his distance – or would be, if she weren't so damnably friendly all the time even when he'd rebuffed her. Her gentleness and kind words the last time they'd been in this room together had been too much for him; the one person he'd tried to keep at arm's length – and she had been the first to put her arms around him and remind him that he was still Anders inside, even after what Fenris had done to him.

The memory brought a lump to his throat, and when Merrill dropped into the seat next to him and gave him an unexpected hug he had to swallow hard. He could feel the sting of tears rising, and ducked his head to take a mouthful of beer before anyone could notice. He didn't want to start crying in front of everyone again.

“Are you well, da'len?” she asked. She pulled the mug of beer from his hands, took a sip and pulled a face before pushing it away. “How can you drink that? It's like watered-down rat piss.”

“How would you know what rat piss tastes like, watered-down or no?” chuckled Anders as he ran a hand over his face, wiping away the few tears that wet his cheeks.

Merrill giggled delightedly. “You sound almost back to yourself!” she exclaimed, and gave him another hug.

“Easy, Daisy, he's had a rough day,” chided Varric.

“But he is, he's better!” said Merrill. “I can see it in his eyes – it's like he's alive again!” She laid a head on his feathered pauldron and grinned shyly. “I'm glad you're back,” she said quietly. “It wasn't right with you gone.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek then jumped up to go in search of something better to drink than Corff's rat-piss brew.

Anders sat with a bemused look on his face, one hand pressed to his cheek. He suddenly realised everyone was looking at him and blushed. “What?” he exclaimed. “You never see a guy kissed by a pretty girl before?” They were all grinning, even Fenris; after a moment he hesitantly returned their grins.

Varric slapped him cheerily on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, Blondie,” he smiled.

Anders blushed again and turned back to his beer. He wasn't fixed inside; he knew that all too well. After being broken so thoroughly, it would take more than a few days to put himself back together. It had taken him months to return to a shadow of himself after a year in solitary, at the mercy of the templars – but that abuse had been extended and ongoing. What Fenris had done had been equally as brutal, but only one night. Whilst he would never be able to trust Fenris the way he had before, he thought he would likely recover faster than he had from solitary. It would just take time, was all. At least this time he had friends around him who would give him that time, the space and the support he needed whilst he put himself back together again.

As he glanced at Fenris, he realised with a sense of sadness that what they had had between them had died that night under Fenris' fists. No matter how contrite the elf was, Anders could never forget what he had suffered at his rage. He would never be able to trust him again. Maybe in time they could learn again to be around each other without the elf looking haunted by guilt or the mage flinching at any sudden moves or a harsh word; but Anders would never again let the elf lay hand on him even in love.

As Fenris turned and looked at him, Anders could see from the deep misery in his eyes – belied by the false bright smile – that Fenris had reached the same thought. He had destroyed what had blossomed between them in a moment of blind rage. Fenris opened his mouth as if to speak, but Anders shook his head.

 _No. Please_. He mouthed the words silently. By the stricken look that crossed Fenris' face, he could see the elf understood. He was grateful for Merrill's reappearance as the Dalish mage dropped back into her seat beside him, setting down a cup of wine as she flashed him a bright grin.

He still loved Fenris; that was the worst of it. His heart ached even as he smiled at Merrill's teasing. He missed Fenris; missed the way things had been before. A part of him wanted nothing more than to feel Fenris' arms around him, the elf's breath hot upon his neck, that husky voice reminding him that he belonged to the elf and no-one else. That feeling of blissful surrender as he yielded himself up to the elf, opening himself up - body and heart, willingly claimed by the white-haired warrior.

But another part of him keened in fear - the terrified, still broken part that remembered rending talons, ripping inside him. The scars upon his skin remembered the feel of the belt as it laid open his back. Manacles about his wrists. His own screams torn from bloodied lips. _I am a good mage._ A litany against terror, warding off further punishment. And he knew that all was over between them.

Some wounds would never heal.

 

 

~ _fin._ ~


End file.
